A Cry in the Night

  “Hide that thing,” Clyde begged. “Don’t let her see it. Here . . .” He thrust it into the supply closet.

  Rooney appeared on the threshold of the office, her face filled out a little, her eyes wide and calm. Jenny felt the thin arms embracing her. “Jenny, I’ve missed you.”

  Through stiff lips she managed to say, “I’ve missed you too.” She had begun to blame Rooney for everything that had happened. She had dismissed everything Rooney told her as the imagination of a sick mind.

  “Jenny, where are the girls? Can I say hello to them?”

  The question was a slap across the face. “Erich’s away with the girls.” She knew her voice was trembling, unnatural.

  “Come on, Rooney. You can visit tomorrow. You better get home. The doctor wanted you to go straight to bed,” Clyde urged.

  He took her arm, propelled her forward, looked over his shoulder. “Be right back.”

  While they waited, she managed to tell them about her search for the cabin. “It was you, Mark. Last night. I said the children would be fine with Erich and you didn’t say anything. Later on . . . in bed . . . I knew . . . you were worried about them. And I began to think—if not Rooney, if not Elsa, if not me . . . And my mind kept saying, Mark is afraid for the children. Then I thought. Erich. It has to be Erich.

  “That first night . . . He made me wear Caroline’s nightgown. . . . He wanted me to be Caroline. . . . He even went to sleep in his old bed. And the pine soap he put on the girls’ pillows. I knew he’d done that. And Kevin. He must have written—or phoned—to say he was coming to Minnesota. . . . Erich was always toying with me. Erich must have known I met Kevin. He talked about the extra mileage in the car. He must have heard the gossip from the woman in church.”

  “Jenny.”

  “No, let me tell you. He took me back to that restaurant. When Kevin threatened to stop the adoption he told Kevin to come down. That’s why the call was on our phone. Erich and I are the same height when I wear heels. With my coat . . . and the black wig—he could look enough like me until he got in the car. He must have hit Kevin. And Joe. He was jealous of Joe. He could have come home earlier that day; he knew about the rat poison. But my baby. He hated my baby. Maybe because of his red hair. Right from the beginning when he gave him Kevin’s name, he must have been planning to kill him.”

  Were those dry, harsh sobs coming from her? She could not stop talking. She had to let it out.

  “Those times I thought I felt someone leaning over me. He was opening the panel. He must have been wearing the wig. The night I went to have the baby. Woke him up. I touched Erich’s eyelid. That’s what scared me. That was what I’d feel when I reached up in the dark. . . . The soft eyelid and the thick lashes.”

  Mark was rocking her in his arms.

  “He has my children. He has my children.”

  “Mrs. Krueger, can you find your way back to the cabin?” Sheriff Gunderson’s tone was urgent.

  A chance to do something. “Yes. If we start at the cemetery . . .”

  “Jenny, you can’t,” Mark protested. “We’ll follow your tracks.”

  But she would not let them go without her. Somehow she led them back, Mark and the sheriff and Clyde. They turned on the oil lamps, bathing the cabin in a mellow Victorian glow that only accentuated the gnawing cold. They stared at the delicate signature, Caroline Bonardi, then began to search the cupboards. But there were no personal papers; the cupboards were empty except for dishes and cutlery.

  “He’s got to keep his painting supplies somewhere,” Mark snapped.

  “But the loft is empty,” Jenny said hopelessly. “There was nothing in it except the canvas and the place is so small.”

  “It can’t be that small,” Clyde objected. “It’s the size of the house. It might be partitioned off.”

  There was a storage area that was half again the size of the loft room, accessible by a door in the right-hand corner, a door that Jenny hadn’t noticed in the shadowy room. This area had stacks of file baskets; dozens more of Caroline’s paintings in them; an easel, a cabinet with painting supplies; two suitcases. Jenny realized they matched the vanity case she’d found in the attic. A long green cape and dark wig were folded over one of the suitcases.

  “Caroline’s cape,” Mark said quietly.

  Jenny began rifling through the file cabinets. But they only held painting supplies: charcoals and umbras and turpentine and brushes and empty canvases. Nothing, nothing that might indicate where Erich had gone.

  Clyde began searching through a bin of canvases near the door. “Look.” His cry was horror-filled. He had pulled out a canvas. This one in the murky green tones of stagnant water. A surrealistic collage of Erich as a child and Caroline. Scenes crowding, overlapping. Erich with a hockey stick in his hand. Caroline bending over a calf; Erich pushing her; her body, sprawled in a tub, no that was the stock tank; her eyes staring up at him. The tip of the hockey stick flipping the overhead lamp into the tank. Erich’s child-face demonic now, laughing into the agonized figure in the water.

  “He killed Caroline,” Clyde moaned. “When he was ten years old, he killed his own mother.”

  “What did you say?” They all spun around. Rooney was in the doorway of the loft, Rooney with wide eyes no longer calm. “Did you think I couldn’t tell something was wrong?” she asked. She was staring not at the canvas Clyde was holding, but beyond to the painting now revealed in the bin. Even with the distortions Jenny recognized Arden’s face. Arden peering in the window of the cabin. A caped figure with dark hair and Erich’s face behind her. Hands around Arden’s throat, the fingers not attached to the hands. Arden lying in a grave on top of a casket, dirt being shoveled over her bright blue skirt, the name on the tombstone behind her head: CAROLINE BONARDIKRUEGER. And in the corner the slashing signature, Erich Krueger.

  “Erich killed my little girl,” Rooney moaned.

  Somehow they made their way back to the house. Mark’s hand held hers tightly, a silent Mark, not attempting to offer useless words of comfort.

  In the house, Sheriff Gunderson got on the phone. “There’s the chance that everything we believe he’s done is the fantasy of a sick mind. There’s one way we can be sure and we can’t waste a minute finding out.”

  The cemetery was once again violated. Floodlights bathed the tombstones in unnatural night brilliance. Drills bore into the frozen ground of Caroline’s grave. Rooney watched, surprisingly calm now.

  As they looked down, they saw bits of blue wool mixed with the earth.

  A man’s voice spoke from the grave: “She’s here. For God’s sake, get the mother away.”

  Clyde hugged Rooney, forcing her to retreat. “At least we know,” he said.

  Back at the house, the daylight was filtering in. Mark made coffee. When had Mark begun to suspect that the children were in danger with Erich? She asked him.

  “Jenny, after I left you home last night, I called Dad. I knew he’d been terribly upset about what Tina said about how the lady in the painting had covered the baby. He admitted to me that he’d known Erich was psychotic as a child. Caroline had confided in him about Erich’s obsession with her. She’d caught him watching her while she slept, keeping her nightgown under his pillow, wrapping himself in her cape. She took him to a doctor but John Krueger flatly refused to allow him to be treated. John said that no Krueger had emotional problems; it was just Caroline spoiling him; spending so much time with him, that was the problem.

  “Caroline was on the verge of a breakdown by then. She did the only thing she could. She relinquished custody, with the understanding that John would send Erich to boarding school. She hoped a different atmosphere would help him. But after she died, John broke his promise. Erich never did get help.

  “When Dad heard what Tina said about the lady in the painting, heard what Rooney said about seeing Caroline, he began to suspect what was happening. I think the realization brought on his heart attack. I only wish he’d confided in me. Of course he had
absolutely no proof. But that was why he told me to urge Erich to allow you and the girls to visit him.”

  “Mrs. Krueger.” Sheriff Gunderson’s voice was hesitant. Was he afraid she would keep blaming him? “Dr. Philstrom from the hospital is here. We had him look at what’s in the cabin. He has to talk to you.”

  “Jenny, can you tell me exactly what Erich said the last time he phoned you?” Dr. Philstrom asked.

  “He was angry because I tried to tell him that maybe he was wrong about me.”

  “Did he mention the girls?”

  “He said they were fine.”

  “How long since he put them on to talk to you?”

  “Nine days.”

  “I see. Jenny, I’ll be honest. It doesn’t look good but it would seem that Erich must have painted that last canvas before he disappeared with the girls. There’s quite a lot of detail in it. Even if he’s been in the cabin—and we know he has—there’s a scissor there with bits of fur on it. Even so, it would seem that he painted that picture before he left with the children.”

  A whisper of hope. “You mean they may not be dead?”

  “I don’t want to encourage you unfairly. But think about it. Erich still fantasizes living with you, having you under his total power once he has that confession signed. He knows that without the children he can’t hold you. So until he perceives a reunion with you as being hopeless, there’s a chance, just a chance. . . . ”

  Jenny stood up. Tina. Beth. If you were dead I would know it. Just the way I knew Nana wouldn’t live through that last night. Just the way I knew something was going to happen to the baby.

  But Rooney hadn’t known. For ten years now Rooney had waited for Arden to come home. And all the time Arden’s body was buried within sight of Rooney’s windows.

  How often had she seen Rooney standing over Caroline’s grave. Was it because something had compelled her to go there? Something deep in her subconscious that had told her she was visiting Arden’s grave too?

  She asked Dr. Philstrom about that, asked him gravely, heard her voice almost childlike. “Is that possible, doctor?”

  “I don’t know, Jenny. I think Rooney instinctively suspected that Arden wouldn’t deliberately run away. She knew her child.”

  “I want my children,” Jenny said. “I want them now. How could Erich hate me so much, that he would hurt them?”

  “You’re talking about a totally irrational man,” Dr. Philstrom said. “A man who wanted you because you bear a startling resemblance to his mother, yet hated you for replacing her; who could not trust your love for him because he perceives himself as unlovable and who lived in mortal fear of losing you.”

  “We’re going to make up flyers, Mrs. Krueger,” the sheriff said. “We’ll have their pictures in every hamlet in Minnesota and all the bordering states. We’ll get television coverage. Somebody’s got to have seen them. Clyde is going through all Erich’s records of property holdings. We’ll search out any property he owns. Don’t forget. We know he was here at least once, and that was only five hours after he phoned you. We’re concentrating on a radius of five hours’ drive from here.”

  The ringing of the telephone made them all jump. Sheriff Gunderson reached to pick it up. Some instinct made Jenny push his hand away.

  “Hello.” Her voice so unsteady. Would it be Erich? Oh, God, would it be Erich?

  “Hello, Mommy.”

  It was Beth.

  36

  Beth!” She closed her eyes, jammed her knuckles against her mouth. Beth was still alive. Whatever he planned to do to them hadn’t happened yet. The memory of the painting, Beth and Tina, stiff little puppets, the corduroy belts around their necks. She could not blot it out.

  She felt Mark’s hands, those strong hands on her shoulders, steadying her. She held out the receiver so he could try to listen too.

  “Beth, hello, darling.” She tried to sound carefree and pleased. It was so hard not to scream, Beth, where are you? “Are you having a good time with Daddy?”

  “Mommy, you’re mean. You came into our room last night and you wouldn’t talk to us. And you covered Tina too tight.”

  Beth’s plaintive voice was high-pitched enough for Mark to hear. She saw the agony in his eyes, knew it was reflected in her own. Covered Tina too tight. No. No. Please, God. No. The baby. Now Tina.

  “Tina cried so hard.”

  “Tina cried.” Jenny tried to fight the waves of dizziness. She mustn’t faint. “Let me talk to her, Bethie. I love you, Mouse.”

  Now Beth began to cry. “I love you too, Mommy. Please come soon.”

  “Mommy.” Tina’s helpless sobbing. “You hurt me. The blanket was in my face.”

  “Tina, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jenny tried not to let her voice break. “I’m sorry, Tina.”

  There was a clunk as the phone was moved, then Tina’s wail.

  “Jenny, why are you so upset? The girls were dreaming. It’s just that they miss you as I do, darling.”

  “Erich.” Jenny knew she was shouting. “Where are you Erich? Please, I promise you. I’ll sign that confession. I’ll sign anything. But please, I need my children.”

  She felt Mark’s grip on her shoulder, cautioning her. “I mean I need my family, Erich.” She forced her voice to calm, bit her lips over the urge to plead with him not to hurt them. “Erich, we can be so happy. I don’t know why I do such strange things when I’m asleep but you promised to take care of me. I’m sure I’ll get better.”

  “You were going to leave me, Jenny. You just pretended to love me.”

  “Erich, come home and we’ll talk. Or let me send the letter to you. Tell me where you are.”

  “Have you talked to anyone about us?”

  Jenny looked at Mark. He shook his head warningly. “Why would I tell anyone about us?”

  “I tried to phone you three times yesterday afternoon. You were out.”

  “Erich, I hadn’t heard from you for so long. I needed to get some fresh air. I skied for a while. I want to be able to ski with you again. We had such fun, remember?”

  “I tried to phone Mark last evening. He wasn’t home. Were you with him?”

  “Erich, I was here. I’m always here waiting for you.” Tina was screaming now. From the background she could hear road sounds again, like heavy trucks shifting gears on a grade. Could Erich have been at the farm last night? If so had he gone to the cabin? No, if he had been in the cabin and seen the broken window, realized that people had been there, he wouldn’t be calling now.

  “Jenny, I’ll think about coming back. You just stay in the house. Don’t go out. Don’t go skiing. I want you right there. And someday I’ll open the door and be there and we’ll be a family again. Will you do that, Jenny?”

  “Yes, Erich, yes. Yes. I promise.”

  “Mommy, I want to talk to Mommy.” Beth’s pleading. “Please, please. . . .”

  There was a sharp, clicking sound and the dial tone began to hum in her ear.

  Jenny listened while Mark repeated the conversation. She only interjected when the sheriff asked, “But why would the kids have thought it was you?”

  “Because he has my suitcases with him now,” Jenny said. “He probably put one of my robes on. . . . Maybe even that red one I’ve been missing. He must have a dark wig with him. When the children are very sleepy they see what they think they’re seeing. Dr. Philstrom, what will he do now?”

  “Jenny, anything is possible. I can’t deny that. But I suspect that as long as he still holds the hope that you’ll stay with him, the girls are fairly safe.”

  “But Tina—last night. . . .”

  “You have that answer. He tried to phone you in the afternoon and you were gone. He tried to phone Mark in the evening and couldn’t reach him. It’s uncanny how some psychotics develop almost a sixth sense. Some instinct told him you were together. In his frustration he came very near to harming Tina.”

  Jenny tried to swallow over the quiver in her voice. “He sounds so stran
ge, almost rambling. Suppose he does come soon? He could conceivably decide to come back tonight. He knows every inch of this property. He could ski in. He could drive a car we wouldn’t recognize. He could walk in from the riverbank. If he sees anyone around here who doesn’t belong here, that will be the end. You’ve all got to go away. Suppose, oh, God, suppose he sees Caroline’s grave has been disturbed? He’ll know that Arden’s body was found. Don’t you see? You can’t have any publicity. You can’t send out flyers. You can’t have strangers here. The cabin. If he goes to the cabin and sees the broken window . . . those bits of cloth tacked on the trees . . .”

  Sheriff Gunderson looked from Mark to Dr. Philstrom. “Obviously you both agree. All right. Mark, will you ask Rooney and Clyde to come in here? I’ll get the people from the coroner’s office. They’re still sifting the dirt in the cemetery.”

  Rooney was surprisingly composed. Jenny knew that Dr. Philstrom was studying her closely. But Rooney’s concern seemed to be only for Jenny. She hugged her, laid her cheek on Jenny’s. “I know. Oh, my dear, I know.”

  Clyde had aged ten years in the past hours. “I’m listing all the property Erich owns,” he said. “I’ll have that for you soon.”

  “The painting,” Jenny said. “We’ve got to put that painting back. It was on the long wall in the loft.”

  “I left it in the supply closet in the office,” Dr. Philstrom said. “But I think it might be better if Mrs. Toomis would agree to come back and stay in the hospital until this is over.”

  “I want to be with Clyde,” Rooney said. “I want to be with Jenny. I’m all right. Don’t you see. I know.”

  “Rooney stays with me,” Clyde said flatly.

  Sheriff Gunderson walked over to the window. “This place is a mess of footprints and tire tracks,” he said. “What we need is a good snowstorm to cover them. Keep your fingers crossed. There’s one due tonight.”

  The storm began in the early evening. Snowflakes fine and rapid bit at the house and barns and fields. The wind blew and scattered the flying flakes, eventually banking them in rapidly growing piles against the trees and buildings.